FOOD

FOOD; Chic Cheeks

By Jonathan Reynolds

Published: February 3, 2002

Correction Appended

I'll be you for a minute. As you, I'm flipping to the end of this logorrhea to see how long the recipes are and if I'll ever make them, and . . . ay yi yi, they're longer than the prose! Two recipes that have a combined 84 steps, look as though they'll take a month or two to concoct and result in enough feed for every member of J-Lo's entourage! How big does he (me) think my dining room is? Or my kitchen? And hey, this isn't '58; I've got work to do.

And so, I, as you, won't even bother to read this because I'm never going to make these colossally complicated dishes, which, anyway, sound as if they're a short-lived fad dreamed up by a lunatic P.R. foodie who put everything into Enron and is hysterically searching for a gimmick to lure patrons back into restaurants and who knows knees won't do it. I'm sick of venison carpaccio and froths and foams and fruit with my fish. And furthermore, even if you can convince me that these cheek things are better than osso bucco, which ones are they supposed to be -- front or rear? One is adorable, the other scary, but neither conjure appetite.

Now I, writing as me, not you, don't blame you. I am as weary as you of crab mucked up with mango.

But cheeks aren't a fad. They've been around as long as the animals they come from. (Cro-Magnon woman did a fairly exhaustive job of finding the edible parts of nature some time ago.) Cheeks are tough, fatty, gelatinous chewing muscles that require lengthy cooking. But when treated properly, they are, to my mind, more densely beefy than just about any other cut. While their preparation isn't exactly trouble free, most of the work is done by your stove (a few hours of braising), and in hopes of encouraging you to make them, know that I prefer the taste and texture of cheeks -- calf, cow, pig, human -- to osso bucco, and I prefer nothing to osso bucco. And just as you are forming price objections on your lips, also know that like most stewing meats, they are about the best value for money you can get: between $3 and $4 a pound.

It's not the cheeks' fault that they have become trendy. ''Just as I like hanger steak better than filet,'' says Alex Urena, head chef at Marseilles, ''I like the beef cheeks. They are traditional at German restaurants like Danube. I worked nine years with David Bouley, and I spent eight months in the kitchen with Fernand Adria'' -- of Il Buli -- and he likes soft food.'' Beef cheeks are softer, more babylike (and that's a compliment) than a boeuf bourguignon or pot-au-feu.

At first, Urena accompanied his cheeks with oxtail, resulting in

two subtly different brown-meat tastes. ''But the oxtail doesn't have enough meat on it, so then I put the cheeks with short ribs. I use the same braise for both, but they come out different.'' The combination is an intense superstew, so perfect for a cold winter night you'll think you're in a ski resort in front of a fire (without all the expensive equipment and nuisance and danger of actually skiing).

Urena is thinking of switching to veal because veal cheeks are lighter and more tender -- and take less cooking time. ''The flavor is not as strong, but because of the gelatin, it still is as good as hanger steak. I put them in the oven after service and cook them overnight at 250 covered with aluminum foil,'' he says. ''About eight hours for beef, five for veal.'' But don't be put off: they can be made a few days in advance, and as with most stews, they improve over time.

Richly satisfying as beef and veal cheeks are, I could eat the pork version all night, at least as served up at JoJo, Jean-Georges Vongerichten's recently (and unnecessarily) redesigned bistro -- and it's not just the attractive waitresses wearing lingerie on the outside, which any fool can see is where it has belonged all along. JoJo's cheeks are braised for a much shorter time than their cattle counterparts, and because the chef has the inspiration to form them into hot-dog shapes, then brush them with mustard before dusting with cornmeal and sautéing them in oil, the exterior crunches while the interior massages your mouth languorously. ''You get two textures -- the outside crust of cornmeal, the creamy inside,'' Vongerichten says, ''and the mustard cuts into the fatty flavor. I'm from Alsace, and we eat a lot of white meat there, so I'm very comfortable with pork.'' The accompanying lentil salad -- a tangy, bumpy cushion -- contrapuntally accentuates the paradox.

Yes, you do have to set aside three hours to make this dish, but that's not much time for a masterpiece (cf. say, writing ''Light in August''), but it, too, can be cooked ahead of time. And since much of those hours is spent nursing the braise, you can discipline your children or do brain surgery or prepare a brief, inspired by delicious aromas.

As for the aesthetics, you'll have to get over your squeamishness about difficult body parts like tongue and brains and pancreases: after all, once the animal has given himself-herself up for your delectation, it's not fair to him-her -- racist, really -- to embrace the rib-eye but shun the nasty parts. And no, the cheeks don't look like the kissable side faces of Halle Berry or Jennifer Connelly; after hours of braising, theirs wouldn't look like cheeks either.

Correction: February 17, 2002, Sunday The Food column on Feb. 3, about beef, veal and pork cheeks, misspelled the name of the restaurant where Alex Urena, who prefers beef cheeks, is head chef. It is Marseille, not Marseilles.